where there are too many deaders to get it. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be out of food in a month.”
“Then what happens?”
Debra shrugged and looked away. She picked up a metal plate that held a pile of baked beans and two strips of beef jerky, and handed it to Windows. “Since we’re done here, you get to feed our special guest.”
“Special guest?”
“The creepy man,” whispered Cindy.
“He’s not creepy,” Debra gently admonished. “He’s just old.”
“I don’t understand,” said Windows.
Debra motioned for Windows to follow. They walked down to the end of the compound to the last unit in the far corner. The words KEEP OUT were written on the door in red paint. A padlock kept the sliding door secured to the frame. Debra bent down, removed a set of keys from her pocket, and opened it. Sliding the lock out of the ground mounting, she placed it to one side and lifted up the door halfway. When Windows didn’t move, she motioned inside. “Go ahead.”
Windows bent down and ducked under, and Debra closed the door behind her.
This unit was even more Spartan than her own living quarters, which said a lot. The “furniture” consisted of a dirty sleeping bag crumpled up in one corner and a bucket in the opposite. The only light came from a battery-operated lantern placed in the center of the floor, its beam so dull that it barely lit the corners. A heavy stench of urine and shit permeated the room. She assumed the odor came from the bucket, which must have served as a toilet.
A raspy voice came out of nowhere. “Hello.”
Windows spun around, searching for the person associated with the voice. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, and she fought back the urge to scream. Instead, she prepared to fight, fueling it with her rage, rage that came from Debra having set her up. Windows would deal with her if she got out of here alive. Right now, her eyes darted around the unit, but she couldn’t see into the corners because of the dark.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Something stirred inside the sleeping bag. One of the flaps fell to the side, revealing a haggard old man sitting underneath. She had not noticed him at first because his clothes appeared as threadbare and filthy as the sleeping bag. Long, white, unwashed hair hung in clumps off his head and draped across his shoulder, with several loose strands sticking against his scraggly beard. His features were drawn and gaunt. She could hardly see his eyes between the dark circles under them and the lack of light, but they mirrored a broken and defeated soul. The fingers on both his hands twisted in unnatural positions and curled in against the palms at awkward angles. Placing his deformed hands on the ground, he struggled to sit upright, and then leaned back into the corner. When he did, the odor of feces became so overwhelming Windows gagged.
“Sorry about the smell.” The old man raised his gnarled hands. “Hygiene is not easy for someone in my condition.”
Windows hesitated. Nothing in his manner was threatening, so she cautiously approached. “I have your dinner.”
“Is it that time already?”
He pulled the loose flap of the sleeping bag back across his lap to mask the stench and held out his hands. Windows tried to hand him the plate, but he could not hold it because of his fingers. The plate started to slide, threatening to spill the food across his lap. Windows caught it at the last minute and tilted it so the contents moved back to the center. Moving closer to the old man, she knelt beside him and scooped up a forkful of beans.
“You don’t have to do this,” he croaked, his tone neither defiant nor proud, but one of a man long used to being mistreated.
“I know.”
Windows moved the fork closer, and the old man leaned forward and opened his mouth. He chewed furiously and swallowed, and opened his mouth for more. Windows obliged. The poor old man was starving, a sensation she remembered well from her first few
“Then what happens?”
Debra shrugged and looked away. She picked up a metal plate that held a pile of baked beans and two strips of beef jerky, and handed it to Windows. “Since we’re done here, you get to feed our special guest.”
“Special guest?”
“The creepy man,” whispered Cindy.
“He’s not creepy,” Debra gently admonished. “He’s just old.”
“I don’t understand,” said Windows.
Debra motioned for Windows to follow. They walked down to the end of the compound to the last unit in the far corner. The words KEEP OUT were written on the door in red paint. A padlock kept the sliding door secured to the frame. Debra bent down, removed a set of keys from her pocket, and opened it. Sliding the lock out of the ground mounting, she placed it to one side and lifted up the door halfway. When Windows didn’t move, she motioned inside. “Go ahead.”
Windows bent down and ducked under, and Debra closed the door behind her.
This unit was even more Spartan than her own living quarters, which said a lot. The “furniture” consisted of a dirty sleeping bag crumpled up in one corner and a bucket in the opposite. The only light came from a battery-operated lantern placed in the center of the floor, its beam so dull that it barely lit the corners. A heavy stench of urine and shit permeated the room. She assumed the odor came from the bucket, which must have served as a toilet.
A raspy voice came out of nowhere. “Hello.”
Windows spun around, searching for the person associated with the voice. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, and she fought back the urge to scream. Instead, she prepared to fight, fueling it with her rage, rage that came from Debra having set her up. Windows would deal with her if she got out of here alive. Right now, her eyes darted around the unit, but she couldn’t see into the corners because of the dark.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Something stirred inside the sleeping bag. One of the flaps fell to the side, revealing a haggard old man sitting underneath. She had not noticed him at first because his clothes appeared as threadbare and filthy as the sleeping bag. Long, white, unwashed hair hung in clumps off his head and draped across his shoulder, with several loose strands sticking against his scraggly beard. His features were drawn and gaunt. She could hardly see his eyes between the dark circles under them and the lack of light, but they mirrored a broken and defeated soul. The fingers on both his hands twisted in unnatural positions and curled in against the palms at awkward angles. Placing his deformed hands on the ground, he struggled to sit upright, and then leaned back into the corner. When he did, the odor of feces became so overwhelming Windows gagged.
“Sorry about the smell.” The old man raised his gnarled hands. “Hygiene is not easy for someone in my condition.”
Windows hesitated. Nothing in his manner was threatening, so she cautiously approached. “I have your dinner.”
“Is it that time already?”
He pulled the loose flap of the sleeping bag back across his lap to mask the stench and held out his hands. Windows tried to hand him the plate, but he could not hold it because of his fingers. The plate started to slide, threatening to spill the food across his lap. Windows caught it at the last minute and tilted it so the contents moved back to the center. Moving closer to the old man, she knelt beside him and scooped up a forkful of beans.
“You don’t have to do this,” he croaked, his tone neither defiant nor proud, but one of a man long used to being mistreated.
“I know.”
Windows moved the fork closer, and the old man leaned forward and opened his mouth. He chewed furiously and swallowed, and opened his mouth for more. Windows obliged. The poor old man was starving, a sensation she remembered well from her first few
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